You Before Me
by The Painted Green Door
Summary: Inspired from the quote: "You would have been far too busy looking at the tall blond girls with the endless legs and the big hair...I would have been serving the drinks over there. One of the invisibles." Let's see if Louisa's dictum is correct. AU.
1. Prologue

Welcome! Thank you for taking the time to read _You Before Me_.

I don't want to bore you with a very long author's note but I do have to address a couple of things:

1\. In a perfect and ideal world I would be updating every week but I can safely say that will not happen due to the fact that life is very busy. You have been warned.

2\. If this story is not your type of Bertie Bott's Bean Flavour, please leave it unharmed so some other lad or lass can enjoy it to the fullest extent. Thank you.

3\. Disclaimer: I do not own 'Me Before You' or its characters in any way. The only thing I own is my brain and story plot.

4\. As an additional note, this idea was inspired by the chapter in which Will and Louisa attend Alicia's wedding. Will argued that he would have noticed Louisa regardless of whether or not he was in a wheelchair, in which Louisa responds that he would have been 'far too busy looking at the tall blond girls with the endless legs and the big hair' while she would have been 'one of the invisibles.' Let's see if Louisa's declaration is actually accurate. With that being said **, this story takes place in an alternate universe where Will did not have the accident.**

I think that about sums it up. So if you will, please sit back, relax and enjoy _'You Before Me.'_

* * *

 **YOU BEFORE ME**

* * *

 **By: The Painted Green Door**

* * *

 **Prologue:**

* * *

LOUISA:

* * *

It was a grand affair. Too grand for me and my own tastes. In fact, it was the kind of affair that I had almost certainly dreamed of when I was younger but realized that I would never actually have. A bitter taste of reality. I suppose however, that the event was just right and expected for those who were actually invited and in attendance. The guests were having a delightful time if the noise level and amount of laughter were any indicator, and the bride and groom (and their respective families) were all smiles as they milled about to speak to each guest.

The bride herself looked absolutely ethereal. Her pale caramel skin was radiant under the low lighting that the white lanterns offered, and the off white silk that she wore accentuated her slim figure and long legs. To be perfectly honest, I was a bit jealous that anyone could be so perfect. She was absolutely heavenly. I imagined what it would look like if I stood next to her – it would have created quite a contrast. And in that moment, I realized how unfair the lottery of genetics were.

But I pushed those thoughts aside, and focused on fluttering around the tables that were clad in white linen cloths and set with tasteful tableware. I ignored how my shoes pinched horribly, and instead forced myself to smile to those around me as I offered the guests some sparkling champagne.

"Louisa, James needs some help at the bar," Marjory, a fellow coworker, hissed under her breath as she bounded up to me. She flipped her strawberry hair purposefully, as if to establish herself as superior compared to myself, and I was tempted to roll my eyes. (Though if I was being perfectly honest, she had been working these kind of events for a few months before I came onto the scene of catering, and therefore I suppose she did have a right to feel a little superior to my own gawky self). During all of my own musings Marjory must have expected an answer from my lips because she shot me an exasperated look before nudging me in the ribs with her elbow before going off in the crowd to make her own rounds.

I sighed slightly, already feeling exhausted from working this event, but nevertheless straightened my posture as I headed towards the bar at the far end.

At least James was glad to see me as I reached the bar, and slipped behind it. Tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear, I attempted to be as efficient as possible in fulfilling drink orders.

By the time the first wave of visitors dwindled, the string quartet had been replaced by a DJ, and the crowd of guests were having a grand old time on the dance floor. I smiled slightly as I watched the scene. A sharp rap on the counter brought me out of my reverie, and I blinked furiously for a couple of seconds before I found myself coming face to face with a rather handsome man.

"Whiskey."

"R-right," I stuttered, feeling instantly foolish. I fumbled a little with the bottle, but quickly poured his drink into the glass. Placing it in front of him I then had a free moment to observe him. As I said before, he was handsome. Clean shaven. Bright eyes. A defined jawline. He was definitely the type of man that Treena would have tried to impress at a bar. I could almost imagine her sashaying her way towards him and attempting her best awfully flirty habits.

The thought made me smile.

"Why are you smiling?" the young man asked me, frowning as he looked up from the contents of his drink towards my face. I felt my face grow hot from the sudden attention that he directed at me, and quickly attempted to direct the attention elsewhere.

"Why do you look absolutely miserable?" I replied, placing my hands on my hips as if that would give me any substantial amount of confidence. Maybe it did because I added, "It's a wedding, and here you are looking like you're at a funeral."

He regarded my words bitterly as he tipped his head back and swallowed the drink's contents in one fluid gulp before slamming his glass down, "Weddings are a farce."

I ignored his words as I took his glass away only for him to signal for another shot. Bourbon this time. I wrinkled my nose at the burning sensation that reached my nose as I poured his desired drink. Once he finished that drink he opened his mouth to speak, "What's your name?"

"Louisa," I said automatically.

He leaned towards me as if he wanted to confide in me. My body tensed as I felt the heat radiate off his skin. As he spoke, I was surprised that his breath did not smell like alcohol, but rather of mint, "You see the bride, Louisa? Well she's my ex."

"Couldn't stand your playboy antics?" I asked him, arching an eyebrow as I took his glass away. I said this teasingly, but wondered if there was perhaps a bit of truth. He did seem like the type who would be popular with the ladies. The confidence just seemed to ooze off of him.

He smiled brilliantly as if he was amused, his white teeth shining, "No. She couldn't stand my daring and risk taking attitude. She'd rather be at a luxury spa in Bali. I'd rather be skydiving."

Oh.

That was an unexpected response.

He paused for a moment before continuing, "Have you ever skydived before?"

I wondered if I looked like the skydiving type. I shook my head as I wiped up the counter, "No."

"Would you ever want to sky dive?"

"No," I answered honestly.

He didn't say anything that indicated that he was displeased by his answer, but the frown on his face returned. I pursed my lips in return, unsure of what to say and do.

After a moment he sighed, and reached in his back pocket. His eyes fluttered down as he pulled out a rather large sum and placed in on the counter. My heart quickened as I thought about the substantial tip I had acquired. I knew my family would be pleased at the small fortune I earned from working at this event. I wondered if I would be able to convince my mother to make my favorite dish (chicken pot pie) as a reward.

He then met my eyes, his own boring holes into my own. I felt insignificant, as if I was a bug being inspected by a larger specimen. He looked thoughtfully at me, and for a moment I thought he would say a quick "thank you" before leaving, but instead he calmly said:

"Why, Louisa, you might be one of the most boring people I've ever met."

He then slid the banknote towards me, and walked away, his hands in his pockets. He acted rather careless all the while, like a sleepy cat sauntering in the warm sunshine after a fat meal.

I fumed.

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 **Note: Review?**


	2. Mister Wedding Man

**Author's Note:** Thank you for all of the kind reviews, favorites, follows and overall support! I hope you enjoy this chapter and that it doesn't disappoint you!

* * *

 **Chapter One:**

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LOUISA

* * *

I trudged home that night with my poor choice of footwear clutched in my hands. My feet had blistered somewhat horribly, and so I waddled awkwardly – my toes cool against the pavement. As I reached the three steps that led to the front door, I clutched the railing hoping that it would assist me in my attempt in hobbling.

"Lou, that you, love?" my mum asked, her voice floating through the narrow hallway. I answered in the affirmative as I let my shoes clatter to the floor so I could hang up my coat. After wrestling for a few moments, I managed to get my coat to stay hung up. A wave of exhaustion hit me, my bones aching and my eyes becoming heavy.

A warm glow of light emanated from the kitchen, and I acted like a moth being drawn to a flame. I found my mother there washing some dishes, the plates and utensils hitting the sides of the sink as she tried her best to get the worn dishware clean. She glanced over at me with a soft smile, her eyes crinkling a little.

It was then that I realized that my mum looked completely exhausted. The years of worry that had occurred in this household had left their marks permanently on her. Worry lines were etched in her face, and the roots of her hair were a definite gray. Her own shoulders were stooped as if she was carrying a great weight upon them, and the skin on her hands were worn but soft looking.

Guilt hit me. Even though she stayed home, (something that sounded absolutely luxurious to an exhausted-from-work me) taking care of Grandad was no simple task, and the house always seemed to demand attention. I had a sneaking suspicion that if my mother wasn't home, the house would be an absolute mess from the semi-mess it already was.

Even though I wanted nothing else than to crawl into my bed, I picked up a towel to dry the pile of dripping dishes on the counter. My mum sent me a grateful look in my direction before focusing on the remaining dishes, "How was work?"

"Fine," I said as a put away some of the plates. I reached in my back pocket and slapped my earnings on a piece of dry counter. I ignored the fact that the banknote that was tossed in my direction by that rude man from the wedding stared up at me.

We worked in silence for the rest of the night. Perhaps both of us were tired.

Once I put the spoons in their respective kitchen drawer (the last item), I bid my mother goodnight and went upstairs. I was looking forward to sleep, but suddenly as I reached the door of my small bedroom, I wasn't tired anymore. Instead, the rude man's words came into mind which dispelled any exhaustion that I had previously felt. My legs led me to Treena's room, whose light was surprisingly still on. I walked in, not bothering to knock, and sprawled out on the bed with a happy sigh. Treena's room was much bigger than mine (even if Thomas was in here as well), and I was content with the change of scenery compared to my own claustrophobic room.

Treena, who had been reading a magazine, shot me a dirty look as she gestured to the already sleeping Thomas. I whispered an apology before staring up at the white ceiling. Somehow staring at absolutely nothing was soothing.

"Treena," I whispered, the rude man's words eating away at me, "do you think I'm boring?"

I was met with silence, so I looked over in her direction to see if she suddenly fell asleep. Instead, I was greeted with a thoughtful expression plastered on Treena's face. She seemed to be considering her words carefully, "Well, you don't really do anything exciting, do you?"

Ouch.

"I like my life," I said defensively. Her words stung a bit, but I knew it wasn't out of menace. I rolled over onto my stomach and used my arms to support my head as I looked at her, "It might be tiring, but I enjoy working at the Buttered Bun, and while the catering gig might be annoying sometimes, (I said this with the rude man in mind) I can make more than a decent wage sometimes."

"Yes," Treena said, waving a dismissive hand, "but you don't really _do_ anything besides work. You don't really have any fun."

And with that comment, she went back to perusing the contents of her magazine, obviously believing that the conversation was over and that I should leave her room.

Which I did.

* * *

The Buttered Bun was what Patrick described as a "dinky, dingy old place with no charm at all," but I thought it had character. It certainly wasn't a fashionable place, but the Formica tops on the tables and the photographs of town that hung from the wall, gave it a "blast of the past" kind of feel. Especially if you also considered the unique feature of Frank's radio which sang oldies and droned off the news.

The customers however, were what made me really look forward to working there. I always enjoyed interacting with Kev and Angelo, the plumbers, and the Dandelion Lady who had a sweet temperament. I liked hearing the adventurous stories of tourists, and listening to the wild imaginations of the schoolchildren who would rambunctiously pop in the shop. Working at the Buttered Bun allowed me to watch different stages of life: I watched relationships begin, but I also watched them end. I watched people cry, but I also watched them laugh many a times. I never was a big part in people's life here (or at least I didn't consider myself to be) but being there allowed me to observe life's follies and joys – and that suited me just fine.

Mondays were pretty quiet at the café, and this Monday was no exception. Except for our usual customers, nothing was strikingly new. The tea urn was full and piping hot, the bread ready to be freshly toasted, and the cinnamon buns were still cooling down – the scent of sweetness wafting in the air. As I leaned against the counter completing my daily crossword, I believed that everything was alright in the world.

I didn't feel the cool rush of air that occurred when the door opened. I was too focused on trying to figure out the last name of the Englishman who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1983. I was about to ask Frank for some help when a tan finger intercepted my vision, pointing at the blank spot on the paper that I was having a hard time filling.

I looked up, slightly startled only for myself to become _truly_ startled. My eyes widened as my brain recognized the figure before me. It was the standoffish man from the wedding.

"Golding," he uttered, his eyes again boring holes in my own.

"'scuse me?" I asked, feeling once again foolish in his presence. Perhaps he made everyone feel that way.

He cleared his throat, and regarded me with a flicker of annoyance, "William Golding won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1983 for his work _Lord of the Flies_."

Oh.

I had never read the book, though I suppose if I _did_ want to read it, Treena probably already had. She always was one step ahead of me.

Realizing that he was staring at me with an expectant look, I scribbled G-O-L-D-I-N-G into the allotted space (a perfect fit) and quickly straightened up. I attempted to show off my best smile as I edged away from my crossword and towards the register, "Right, well, what can I get you?"

He looked at me with an indiscernible look on his face before blinking once, twice, and speaking to me slowly as if I was a child, "A cup of tea please and…" he glanced at the treat offerings, "a cinnamon bun. To go please."

"Right," I said, attempting my best to sound cheerful, "that'll be-"

Somehow he had already been prepared, for he gracefully handed me a pound note that covered the cost of his tea and bakery item thrice over. I decided then that he was either a peculiar man or a Mr. Moneybags. From the way he dressed (in a suit that looked like it would cost me a month's wages or more) it would suggest the latter, but I decided his attitude was perhaps the former.

"Keep the change," he told me before glancing at his Blackberry phone with a frown. He stood there for more than a few seconds, typing who knows what. I wondered what exactly he was typing so quickly, and stood there awkwardly – the pad of my thumb running along the smooth surface of the pound note he just handed me.

"Quite a small world," I said, attempting my best at small talk as I put the money in the register. I was horrible at small talk. I don't know why I tried. I turned away from him to put a cinnamon roll in a small paper bag. I glanced over for a moment while I was at the tea urn filling up a disposable coffee cup with piping hot tea and decided to speak again. "What brings you here?"

He glanced up from his phone's screen with a plain look on his face, "I'm a paying customer just hoping for a decent cup of tea before I head off to work." He paused and then mentioned casually, "The tea is running over."

It took me a moment to understand what he was saying, and then the burning sensation hit me and I yelped in pain. The tea sloshed over the sides of the cup, and I was thoroughly embarrassed. Not knowing what exactly to do (the tea was all over the place and my hands screamed in pain) I tried to play it off even though I was clearly frazzled. All the while the man just stared at me, looking impassive except for the twinkle in his eyes. I couldn't tell if he was amused or just thought I was a complete idiot. Probably both. I could feel my cheeks becoming hot and red at the thought.

Frank's voice carried out from the kitchen in the back, "Clark, I need your help back here when you have a free moment."

I gave a quick "Okay" to let him know that I heard him before I focused back on the task of securing the cup with a lid. Placing his hot beverage and small paper bag with his goodie on the counter section near where he was standing, I instantly began sucking on my thumb where my skin was exposed the most to the boiling tea. I was hoping that it would soothe the aching sensation on my skin, but then I realized that I probably looked like a wee child sucking on my thumb. I quickly dropped my hand to my side before sputtering, "R-Right, is there anything else I can get you?"

He looked at me for a moment before letting his eyes drop towards his watch and then his Blackberry again. He grabbed his order off the counter all the while looking at his phone. Casually he said, "No, that's all. Thank you _Miss Clark_."

He exited the café.

I grimaced.

* * *

I wondered if he would come again, but by Friday I was sure that he wouldn't. For the most part, I felt relieved that I wouldn't have to interact with him, but another part of me was curious about him. Maybe it was because I just didn't understand him.

On Saturday however, he came back. He entered just as we opened up the café, and sat at a table for two near one of the windows which displayed the miserable cloudy day that the town was currently experiencing. Setting his leather briefcase on the table, he pulled out his laptop and began typing away. I observed him for a moment, mentally preparing myself for whatever was about to come my way, before I walked over.

"You're back." I blurted. Somehow that was the only thing that came to mind.

"You seem surprised." He said almost absentmindedly. His brow was slightly furrowed as he continued to stare at his laptop's screen. He paused for a mere second to look up at me before going back to his task of typing, "I'm not _stalking_ you if that's what you're wondering. I simply thought it would be an experience if I visited the Buttered Bun – never been here until only a few days ago. It's only a mere coincidence that _you_ work here, and _I_ wanted a cup of tea."

I've never considered myself a good liar, but somehow I was able to smoothly say, "I wasn't wondering if you were following me, we just always like to see repeat customers here at the Buttered Bun." I then quickly changed gears, "Can I get you anything?"

He looked up at me briefly before looking back at his screen, his eyes squinting at whatever he was looking at, "Are you always here, Miss Clark? Don't you have anything to do on the weekend?"

I suppressed the huff that wanted to arise from my lips and instead spoke with a hint of sarcasm, "Why yes. I'm going to have tea with the Queen of England this afternoon, and right after I plan to go bungee jumping. Later this evening I plan to hike Mount Everest, but not before I take a hike through the lovely Amazon rainforest. But Mr. Wedding Man, you should be honored that I had a spare moment in my _ridiculously_ busy schedule to spend time here with _you_ of all people."

His hands stilled for a moment, the clacking noises that his hands produced from touching his laptop's keyboard stopping. He then looked at me, and leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed. I wasn't sure if he would regard my outburst as childish or immature, or perhaps even unprofessional. All that was running through my head was that I was an idiot. It was an acknowledged fact by all of those who knew me that I usually didn't filter my thoughts or kept them to myself. And usually that was okay here at the café, but the possibility of perhaps offending a customer could be trouble for not only myself, but Frank and the Buttered Bun as a whole.

He then smiled brilliantly at me, his white teeth gleaming as a small sound of laughter emitted from his lips, "Mr. Wedding Man?"

I nodded, not backing down, "Yes, Mr. Wedding Man."

He perfectly arched an eyebrow, looking entertained, "You couldn't be more creative in creating a name for me?"

"It was either that or Mr. Whiskey Bourbon. Or would you prefer Mr. Bitter in Love?"

He leaned, elbows on the table as he propped his head up with the assistance of his hands. He looked thoughtful, as if he was seriously considering the options, "Hmmm…I see your point, Miss Clark – Mr. Wedding Man will have to do. It's much more tasteful than the other options, although if you ever would like to use my _real name_ , I suppose you could call me Will."

I guess the name Will suited him – he kind of did look like a type of William sort of man. Probably a William Jr. or William III or something like that. Coming back to the present situation I then realized his eyes were examining me from top to bottom.

"Question for you Miss Clark, do you always dress like that?" He inquired.

I looked down, not exactly remembering what I was wearing. A white blouse and black tights. That was normal enough. A black skirt with a happy ladybug pattern that I found at a vintage store for a bargain, and an outrageously loud pair red shoes that may or may not have clashed with the black and red ladybugs on my skirt.

"Do you not like ladybugs?" I asked, doing my best to take a leaf out of his book and arch my eyebrow.

"No, I like ladybugs just fine," He responded, again leaning back in his chair. "I was just curious if you always dressed…" the corners of his lips curved slightly upwards as if he was suppressing a smile, "uniquely."

I pursed my lips, tired of this conversation, "Are you going to order something or not?"

He smiled pleasantly at me, as if he could sense my annoyance. He seemed to be accommodating by going with the change of subject, "A cup of tea please. Thank you, Miss Clark."

I pivoted on my heel and quickly prepared his cup of tea behind the counter (careful not to let the tea overrun and certainly careful not to burn myself this time). Once I placed the mug on his table (with him giving me a nod of thanks) I made my way back behind the register and began my crossword of the day.

By the time I finished my crossword puzzle it was midmorning, and the table that Mr. Wedding M- _Will_ had sat at was no longer occupied. I guess I never noticed when he had upped and left. I walked over to the table, (almost hesitantly) cleared away the mug that was empty, and scooped up the pound note that again covered the cup of tea twice or thrice over.

At least I was making decent tips from his patronage.

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 **Note:** **Review?** I usually don't update this quickly but all the support the Fanfiction community has shown me as really inspired me and motivated me to write the next chapter quickly. I love reading all of your comments and observations. I really am enjoying writing this story, and I am really hopeful that my characterizations of both Lou and Will are accurate. (If not, let me know in a review!)

 **Goal:** A total of 15+ reviews before the next update. (I like increments of five)

Thank you again for the kind support you readers have shown me! It is much appreciated. Hopefully I'll have the next chapter up in a week or so.

\- _The Painted Green Door_


	3. Miss Disappointmented

**Author's Note:** I am incredibly thankful for all the support that I have received. Thank you for your kind and encouraging words, the follows, and the favorites. I apologize in advance for this shorter chapter, but felt it was appropriate that it ended where it did. I had some difficulty with this chapter as I felt that the characterization of Lou was not accurate. I hope this chapter (regardless of its shortness) does not disappoint.

* * *

 **Chapter Two:**

* * *

LOUISA

* * *

Sundays the Buttered Bun was closed, which meant that I had a bit of free time to myself – a concept that somehow sounded so foreign to me. Even if I had wished to sleep in, my routine of waking up early enough so I could open up the café with Frank was etched in my mind, and so I wandered the streets that morning at a loss of what to do.

I shuffled along the streets, my pink trainers with the turquoise laces hitting the pavement as I peered into various shop windows, and pretended I actually had a place I needed to be. At some point I sat on a bench right outside one of the high end designer shops targeted at the wealthy tourists here on vacation, and observed the gentle stream of potential customers that entered and exited the store.

Eventually I headed down to the athletics club, knowing that Patrick would be there. He had been in a constant fitness craze for the past year or so – exercising from Mondays to Thursdays, but had recently upped this "craze" by exercising every spare moment that he had. Even though I didn't see the personal appeal, I supported him nevertheless.

As I neared the outdoor track I squinted my eyes, trying to figure out if any of the silhouettes on the track resembled Patrick. As I drew closer and leaned against the small metal fence that served as a border around the track I could see him, his breaths coming out in small puffs of air due to the cold weather we had recently been experiencing.

"Patrick!" I said, waving as enthusiastically as I could to get his attention.

I watched as the figure slowed down only a mere second to wave in my direction before speeding up, clearly not finished with his workout.

I thought about climbing the gate to get to him but decided against it. Instead, I took the long route and used the small gateway to enter the area before quickly walking towards the green center of the track where currently unused hurtles were being kept. I managed to perch myself on top of one, using my core as much as I could to balance and not topple over.

By the time I felt secure in my position, Patrick was running steadily towards my section of track.

"Run with me, babe!" he managed to say, his breaths coming out in short gasps. He ran in place, glancing at his watch before looking back up at me.

I was ready to decline but his insistent look made me reconsider. I tentatively made my way down back to the ground, and scrambled after him, trying my best to match his pace. Thank goodness I had worn my pink trainers, they were the only pair of shoes that were actually appropriate for running in.

"I've thought about where we should go for the holiday we were talking about," Patrick enthused. He looked at me expectantly for a reaction, and so I offered a meek "Oh?" as I huffed heavily from the increasing pace. I tried to focus on the conversation at hand, but the only thought in the forefront of my mind was that I was wearing the wrong type of bra.

"Norway," he announced, looking quite proud with himself.

I lagged a bit behind him, wanting to stop in my tracks but knowing he wouldn't appreciate me ruining his pace, "N-Norway?"

Patrick nodded heartily, "I've been thinking about doing the Xtreme Viking. Sixty miles on bike, thirty miles on foot, and a nice long swim in subzero Nordic seas." He glanced at me, and an emotion I couldn't categorize swept over his facial features before he sighed and pressed a button on his watch. He then ran in place, allowing me the opportunity to stop and bend over in an attempt to catch my breath.

His voice rung in the air as I closed my eyes and tried regain some normalcy in my breathing pattern, "Look, Lou, I've never been fitter in my life. It's time for me to do this. And after I do the triathlon, I promise we will have time to sight see and do whatever _you_ want." A pause. "Besides the rest of the Hailsbury Triathlon Terrors are on board, they're counting on me, Lou."

That got my attention. I snapped my attention to him and managed to straighten my posture, "They're coming?"

He gave me an exasperated look, "Well of course, Lou. We all want to do the Xtreme Viking. And I thought you wouldn't mind if we had a group vacation, it'll be a nice change from all our other vacations where it's been just you and me." He brightened, "And that way you could get to really know the group."

I doubted very much that the Hailsbury Triathlon Terrors wanted to know me. I was aware of the dirty looks they gave me whenever we were at the Kings Head pub. I recognized the disapproval that was sent my way when I ordered a burger with a side of fries (and a slice of cheesecake to top it off). Nevertheless, I attempted a smile, "Well, Norway sounds like it _might_ be fun."

"That's my girl!" Patrick said, looking quite relived, "Norway will be a blast, especially since you'll be running beside me during the race."

Another wave of sickness washed over me as I shook my head furiously, "Patrick, I'm not-"

He then started to jog away from me, blowing me a kiss, "Look babe, I love you, you know I do, but I have a personal record to break. We're all meeting at Kings Head tomorrow night to discuss the details." he shouted over his shoulder before sprinting off.

I thought about shouting after him that I wouldn't be at the pub tomorrow night (I wasn't feeling up to getting silently criticized for my food choices by the group), but instead let my shoulders slump as I made my way back home.

* * *

By the time I got home my mum was already in the kitchen preparing an early dinner. She glanced over her shoulder as I entered the kitchen, giving me a soft smile, "Hello, love. Beef stew tonight."

I waddled over to where she was, glancing over her shoulder as she stirred the contents of the pot over the stove. Steam was rising, heating my face, and the smell of onions, celery and carrots wafted towards me, making the presence of my stomach be known with a growl.

My mother smiled at me, obviously amused at my stomach's antics as I hastily moved away and began to set the table. "How's Grandad today?" I asked her as I tried to move around the cramped space. Ever since the cold air had set in, Grandad had quietly claimed his bones ached somewhat terribly. Even with an army of blankets and quilts that were collected around the house, the ache in his bones refused to cease.

The brow of my mum's furrowed as she focused on the stew, "A little bit better I think." She paused, a thought obviously striking her, "Oh, and there's two tickets on the counter over there," she said, waving her free hand behind her in a general direction, "Grandad called into the local radio station and won some kind of contest a couple of days ago. The prize arrived today in the mail, and he thought you and Treena might like them."

I picked up the two glossy tickets that were on the counter, holding them between my thumb and forefinger, as I read the large printed letters across the top: STORTFORD CASTLE TOUR 3:00PM. I flipped the tickets on the other side to see if there was an expiration date. My eyes widened as I read Monday. That was tomorrow. I chewed on the inside of my cheek. I wondered if Frank would let me leave my shift a couple of hours early. I hoped it wouldn't be an issue since I had always been prompt and never late (or had taken a sick day for that matter). I made a mental note to ask him early tomorrow morning.

The prize wasn't exactly one of those glamorous ones you win on one of the larger and well known radio stations, but a tour of Stortford Castle sounded like something up my alley. I had only toured it once when I was in primary school (and that was for a class field trip). My eyes darted to the other ticket. I wondered if Treena would come with me, or if she would declare it as childish.

"Make sure to thank your Grandad," my mother chided as I exited the kitchen with the two tickets in hand. I made a quick visit to the family living room to thank Grandad with a quick peck on his check, and then bounded upstairs to find Treena.

I entered her room without knocking and was greeted with her scowling face, "Don't you ever knock? I'm trying to read." She then closed her book and let it fall to the floor before she crossed her arms.

I ignored her complaints and presented the two tickets for her to see, "Grandad won two tickets to tour Stortford Castle for tomorrow afternoon, and he thought that both of us should go."

My sister frowned and gave me a short answer, "I can't tomorrow." She must had seen my disappointment and then added before she went back to her reading, "Get Patrick to go or something."

I left her room in disappointment.

* * *

As the evening was winding down and we all sat around the table, our bellies full with my mother's good cooking, I felt content despite the disappointment I experienced earlier today. The shrill ring of our telephone awakened all of us from our bliss, and dad rose to answer it. His gruff voice rang through the kitchen as he greeted whoever was on the other side of the phone.

A pause.

"Lou, it's for you," my dad told me, gesturing to come take the phone. He looked grim, but said nothing else. I stiffly rose, stifling a yawn before taking the phone from his grasp, "Hello?"

 _"_ _Hello, Louisa. It's Frank."_

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable and unsure why he was calling me on the weekend, "Oh, erm, hello." A small voice in my head then reminded me to ask him if I could leave my shift a couple of hours early. I was trying to figure out how to exactly phrase that in the most polite way possible when Frank spoke again.

 _"_ _I hate to do this Louisa, but my dad hasn't been doing well, and so I'm headed back to Australia."_

I turned away from the expectant looks on my family's faces and tried to shuffle into the doorway to have at least one ounce of privacy. In that moment I doubted he would let me leave my shift a couple of hours early. He probably would want all hands on deck while he was gone, and since I was the only one who worked there, that meant I would be expected to be there full time. Not that it changed anything. I was at the Buttered Bun just as much as Frank was. I cleared my throat, "How long will you be gone? I'm sure I can take care of the café while you're-"

 _"_ _No, Louisa. I'm closing up indefinitely. It was bound to happen anyway, the castle has been starting to serve their own refreshments."_

A lump in my throat formed, and somehow the nauseous feeling I felt on the track when I was running earlier today returned.

I could hear a sigh of what sounded like defeat through the receiver, _"I'm really sorry to do this. If you give me your address I can mail your paycheck through the mail with a good reference."_

"R-Right," I said numbly, not really processing the fact that I was being let go. I quietly recited the home address before wishing Frank well and hanging up with a loud click. My fingers lingered on the phone for a second and in that particular moment of time, I wanted nothing more than to shrink and disappear.

* * *

 **Note:** Feedback? Thoughts? **Review?** Now that the Buttered Bun is closed, what does that mean for Lou and Will? (And Lou's income too.)

 **Goal:** Total of 35+ Reviews

I plan to update every Sunday or so. I wanted to finish this chapter by Friday but I needed a break from staring at the computer screen (sorry!). Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you again for the incredible support you all have shown me. I am so thankful.

 _\- The Painted Green Door_


	4. Mister Tour Guide

Author's Note: Hello everyone! This update took a little bit longer than expected, I apologize for that. Thank you everyone for the support you have shown me, and the kind words that encourage me to keep writing this story. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

 **Chapter Three:**

* * *

LOUISA

* * *

I wanted to stay in bed all day and hide from the world with the assistance of my covers, and for a moment I thought I would actually be able to. But then the harsh reality washed over me in the form of my mother who knocked lightly on the door before entering the small, almost suffocating room.

"Hello, love," my mum murmured as she crept in the room and sat on the edge of my bed. I thought about perhaps steadying my breathing and pretending I was asleep as I had done back in my elementary days, but thought better of it. My eyes flickered to her face but I was unable to look at her for very long. The guilt and feeling of misery took ahold of me.

"It's fine if you stay in bed for most of the day, but don't you think it would sadden Granddad if you were to waste those two tickets?" she asked lightly, as if she was doing her best to act nonchalantly. I looked at her, trying to decipher the expression on her face. She was looking at me with a cautious yet compassionate look, but I could sense the underlying tone of her words: Louisa, you need to get out of bed.

I thought about arguing with her, fighting to keep my privilege of staying under my covers where at least I could pretend time stopped, but instead I gave a small inclination that I had heard her. Relief filled her face before she leaned towards me and smoothed a couple of flyaway hairs on my head. She then gave me a quick kiss on my forehead and left me to my own devices.

* * *

WILL

* * *

"Well, tell Thomson & Murray that that we won't go through with it if they continue to act like this. In our last meeting we had an agreement, I won't be suddenly whiplashed around and concede to demands from _them_ " I said smoothly before ending the conversation with a quick efficient _click_. I stared at the phone briefly, the conversation running through my mind for only a mere moment before I pushed it aside.

I drummed the pads of my fingers on my desk, which produced a dull sound, and found myself rather impatient. I glanced through the glass to see fellow coworkers in a flurry, clearly engrossed in their own tasks. I turned towards the large window behind my desk and tried to take in the scene of the bustling streets of Central London below, a poor attempt to clear my mind.

"I take it that it didn't go well," Rupert said as his greeting as he waltzed in my office. He looked quite bored as he took a seat without any invitation from me, and surveyed my office. I glanced at him briefly and then set my mind to focusing on the laptop screen before me, wanting nothing more than for him to exit my office just as suddenly as he had entered it.

After a moment it was clear that he wanted me to contribute to the conversation which had been so far one sided. My eyes flickered to him briefly (he was now warping a paper clip that had been lying on the edge of my desk) before I turned my attention back to the constant flood of emails that entered my inbox, "I thought you and Alicia were supposed to be on your honeymoon."

I saw Rupert shrug in my peripheral line of vision, "We delayed it since we thought it best I close the Hardings deal before our honeymoon," he then added as an afterthought, "I sent her to some luxury spa to make it up to her, so she's not too upset about the change of plans."

I repressed the urge to grimace. The marriage already seemed like it was deteriorating, although it wasn't any of my concern. I frowned as I spotted in the reflection of my laptop's screen that my tie was slightly ever so crooked. No, Rupert and Alicia were none of my concern ever since the two had snuck around behind my back. A bitter taste arose in my mouth at the mere thought of the past, but I instantly pushed it to the back of my mind. I had other matters that concerned my mind (like closing the Thomson & Murray deal once and for all) even _if_ my ex-best friend from college was sitting across from me attempting to cozy up to me and pretend everything was perfectly alright between us.

Rupert cleared his throat, "So Thomson & Murray are backing out?"

I noticed that I fingers hit the keyboard with slightly more force as his words reached my ears. I forced myself to continue replying to the long stream of emails, "I haven't lost a deal yet, and I don't plan to."

I felt Rupert shoot me a dazzling smile, the kind that swayed and persuaded potential clients to agree to whatever the end goal was, "You may not have yet, but you know that old Yank, Dan Bains, is just waiting for you to screw up. He's been vying to one up you ever since he came here from New York."

A small chime alerted me as a new email appeared in my inbox. I perused its contents and smiled to myself. And even though Rupert and I may have not been on the best on terms (at least according to me), I still wanted to share the good news with somebody. In a slightly smug tone I said simply, "Dan Bains will have to wait a little while then. Thomson & Murray is ours."

Rupert smiled at me amicably although it looked rather forced, "That account is huge for us. Lewins is lucky to have you, I swear."

 _"_ _He was probably hoping I would mess up,"_ a small voice whispered in the back of my mind. I was tempted to smirk but thought better of it. I should at _least_ appear to act modest.

I closed my laptop with a smart snap before packing it away in my leather briefcase. Shrugging on my coat I then gave a short nod, "Right, well I'm off. Evans said I could take the rest of the day off if I closed the account by noon." I glanced at my watch, "If I leave now I should be home in time for a late lunch."

"Evans should know better than to enter in a bet with you," Rupert said, shaking his head in amusement as he clapped me on the shoulder. I ignored the fact that he used a bit more force than was necessary. He then added, "Will Traynor leaving _early_? Even when you had permission to leave early, you always stay overtime. You know Bains will have a field day when he hears that you're missing in action."

"Well _Bains_ didn't close the Thomson & Murray account, now did he?" I said nonchalantly before I left for the day.

The train ride from London back to home was completely uneventful, and perfectly normal and unsurprising. The event that caught me by surprise was the FOR RENT sign that appeared in the corner of one the front windows of what used to be the Buttered Bun. I edged closer to the door and squinted my eyes to see if anyone was truly there.

The photographs that hung on the walls were gone. The tea urn missing. The case display where cinnamon buns would be waiting for customers to buy them empty.

I took a step back. The emptiness of the place truly convinced me that the Buttered Bun was no more. It was as I gave the place one last parting glance that a small note taped to the door caught my eye:

 _After eighteen years of serving the community, we are sad to be closing our doors. We thank our customers for the wonderful memories they supplied over the years._

Yes, the Buttered Bun was definitely closed.

* * *

LOUISA

* * *

Stortford Castle was a charming spot, boasting a rich impressive history that went back from the 15th century or so. It could be seen from quite a distance, attracting flocks of tourists who would stop in town for a day only to see the castle before moving on to another location more exciting.

The 3:00PM tour group consisted mostly of tourists who had their cameras ready to capture anything and everything that happened or moved. I lingered towards the back of the group, not in the mood to be part of the pushy group of tourists who all wanted to be number one in the group.

"Please do keep up," the tour guide encouraged before beginning her spiel, "The Great Hall was built in the early 15th century, and is considered to be the oldest part of Stortford Castle. Records indicate that the total construction of the Great Hall took a few years due to not only inclement weather but also a fire that caught in 1408. Reconstruction then took place in the spring of 1409 and the castle as a whole was finished in 1427, which includes-"

I briefly heard the guide's words, but then tuned them out. I was too enthralled of the amount of beauty the castle held. It was stately, yet modest. The furnishings were of beautiful craftsmanship, the details exquisite, yet the tastes were not obnoxious. Stortford Castle held a quiet type of beauty, the kind that made no instant impact at first, but made you slowly fall in love the more you looked at it. I appreciated the natural light that flooded the room, the stone that was barren yet clearly held history. I studied the intricate patterns on the tapestries, admiring the scenes that were portrayed on the fabric. The colors were a little faded, but were still rich for gazing eyes.

"I didn't expect to see you here, Miss Clark."

The voice drew me out of my reverie, and I found myself jumping slightly at the sound of his voice. My head snapped to the sound of his voice, and it took me a moment to register the fact that our proximity was close, the observation made my cheeks become flushed. I took a small step back to allow myself some breathing room.

"I am glad to see you out and about in society away from the Buttered Bun, even if it's here of all places," he said as an afterthought before looking around, clearly disinterested in the sights around him, but feigning interest anyway. He looked at me, his one eyebrow arched, "I shouldn't be surprised that you managed to somehow fall behind the rest of the tour group."

It was then that I realized that I was indeed still in the Great Hall all by my lonesome. Except with Will of course. I made that fact known. "You're not with the tour group either," I argued, trying to defend that fact that I was clearly in my own little world and had not noticed that the stampede of tourists had somehow left the room.

"That's because I'm not with a tour group," he said, as if it should be an obvious and well known fact. He paused for a moment, as if he was waiting for a reaction from me. Perhaps he expected I would scowl at his comment, or question him. After a moment he sighed, "It looks like I have no choice but to give you a tour myself."

"I don't want a tour from you," I told him as I wondered how far the tour group had gone. Would I be able to quickly find them?

"Too bad, Clark," he said, putting his hands in his pockets as he pretended to inspect one of the tapestries that hung on the walls, "My tours are very famous. Haven't you heard of the Will Traynor tour? Great Yelp reviews. Highly rated."

"Was that supposed to be funny?" I asked shortly. A small part of me recognized that he got rid of the _Miss_ that usually accompanied my last name, but I pushed that thought away. I was slightly miffed yet at the same time slightly curious about him. I couldn't figure him out. He truly was a puzzle, the kind that you attempted to figure out but then give up on in the middle of the process.

He kept staring at the tapestry. I wondered what he found so captivating. I looked at the tapestry, trying to see whatever he saw in the woven artwork. He then responded, his eyes still focused on the art in front of him, "I don't know, Clark. Did you laugh?"

"No," I answered honestly.

His body shook ever so slightly, as if he was suppressing laughter. I wondered if I was imagining it. Maybe if I looked in his eyes I would be able to see if there was any humor in them. But he refused to meet my eyes. Instead he began walking away from me.

"Well, you should be honored you're even getting one," he retorted as he sauntered away into another room, not even glancing in my direction to see if I was following him.

I decided then that Will was a little bit pompous, a tad over confident, and an utter mystery.

Perhaps it was because he was an enigma and I was persistent that I followed him. Or perhaps it was because I found him irksome, and wanted to end our interaction on my own terms. Or maybe it was because I _wanted_ to follow him that I did.

Whatever the reason, I hurried after his departing figure, not wanting to be left behind. He led the way, clearly sure that he knew where he was going, although I wasn't so sure. He guided me outdoors and onto a gravel pathway that had a steep incline. He must have sensed my uncertainty because he said, "I know where I'm going, Clark."

"Are you sure? I'm missing all of the inside," I puffed, a little bit out of breath since his strides were much longer than my own. I felt like I was on the track with Patrick all over again.

He shook his head, "You can read about the interiors of castles from a book, but you can't replicate the feeling of looking at a great view."

We continued in silence, the path twisting upwards around the edges of castle until it suddenly stopped. I huffed, out of breath but not as bad as before. I felt my heart pound against my own body, my heartrate increased from the level of activity I had experienced over just a few minutes. After a moment of catching my breath, I then realized we were at the top of the castle's hill. I drank in the sight of the small town that was laid out before my eyes. The sun was hidden behind clouds, but some rays escaped and made the trees and blades of grass glow. It was completely ethereal.

I remembered that I was not completely alone. He was there too. I snuck a glance at him, and noticed how the streaks of sunlight touched his own hair, giving it natural highlights which would only last until the sun disappeared. I felt smiled softly as he gazed at the view presented before him, the expression in his eyes resembling something foreign to me.

I turned my attention back to the beauty that was fading quickly as the sun lowered. I didn't want to break the spell. I was afraid of what would happen.

"What's got you so down, Clark?" he asked after a while, breaking the silence. I looked at him, ready to ask him what he meant, but then he shrugged, "It's the way you carry yourself. You look troubled."

"Oh," I said, at a loss of words. I wasn't sure how to respond to that. I felt my posture deflate as I sat on a small boulder and stared into the sun, not caring if it hurt my eyes or not. For some reason, I wanted nothing more than to avoid his eyes. I sighed, hugging my knees to my chest, "It's really nothing." And even though I said that, I found myself telling him anyway. Maybe it was because I had kept my feelings to myself, not sharing with anyone. Suddenly I found myself blurting out, "I was let go from the Buttered Bun last night."

I mustered up enough courage to look at him. He opened his mouth to say something, but the shrill chime of my cellphone interrupted whatever he was about to say. I dug my bulky phone out of my pocket and saw that the text message notification was from Patrick inquiring where I was, and that everyone was at Kings Head waiting for me.

I sighed. As much as I didn't want to go and spend the evening with the Hailsbury Triathlon Terrors, I felt that I should still support Patrick. I knew this was important to him. I sent him a quick text message that I was on my way before slipping my phone back into my pocket.

I looked up, expecting to see Will's figure still standing near me, but instead I found him already making his way back down the gravel path.

* * *

 **Note:** This is the first attempt in writing in Will's point of view. I struggled writing in his view, wanting to accurately portray him. How did I do? Thoughts on Will/Lou? Critiques? Was the tour what you expected it to be? Show me some love by leaving a review.

Much Thanks,

 _The Painted Green Door_


	5. Mister Uncle Will

**Note:** Thank you everyone for your kind words and endless support. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

 **Chapter Four:**

* * *

LOUISA

* * *

When I arrived at Kings Head the smell of alcohol and what smelt like stale cigars hit me. I managed to make a beeline towards the back, knowing that the group preferred to sit in one of the back corners because it (as Patrick tried to explain to me once when I attempted to suggest sitting towards the entrance in the front) "protected their privacy." I wasn't quite convinced that what they sought out was actually privacy, they often made a ruckus from their cheers and shouts that attracted onlookers.

When Patrick saw me he forced a strained smile in my direction, the kind that clearly meant that he was slightly upset by the lack of promptness I had showed. I shuffled into the empty seat beside him attempted to say a quick apology, but his attention had already moved on to a topic and he looked completely immersed in it. I glanced across to see one of the female members of the group give me a dirty look.

I ordered a burger with an extra side of fries.

* * *

I found myself at the Job Center Tuesday morning, the miserable acidic feeling returning to my stomach. After I filed my first claim for Jobseeker's Allowance, the rest of the morning was full of group interviews with other fellows who looked either just as dazed as I must have, or completely uninterested in the events happening around them.

Eventually I came to meet Syed, a man who looked like to be about in his late thirties or early forties, who was assigned as my personal "adviser". As he scrolled through the contents on whatever was on his screen, I found myself absolutely nervous. I crossed my ankles and then a moment later uncrossed them due to my nerves.

"There's a vacancy at the chicken processing factory, they're looking for someone who could cover the night shift," he told me, glancing at me with a hopeful expression. I instantly shook my head no. Just the thought of possibly working there made the queasy feeling in my stomach intensify.

Syed pursed his lips but didn't say anything. The glow of the screen reflected off his glasses as he continued to browse, "The entertainment industry is always looking for-"

I stopped him before he could continue, "Syed, I'm looking for something that won't cause my dad a heart attack. Isn't there anything _normal?_ Anything in a café or shop?" I clasped my hands together to emphasize the fact that I was truly pleading for some decent job to appear on his computer screen.

My heart sunk as he gave a sigh, "I'm sorry, Louisa. There just aren't any vacancies in that type of work…come back tomorrow morning, something may pop up between now and then." Syed then sent me a weak but encouraging smile, "I'm sure we will be able to find something that matches with the interests you stated on your form."

With that, Syed sent me on my way even though I did not have anywhere in particular that I needed to go or required my presence.

I wandered aimlessly down the street, shifting through the small stream of tourists who were set on reaching their destination (wherever that may be) in the shortest amount of time as possible. I stuffed my hands in the shallow pockets of my coat, trying to ignore the gentle yet brisk wind that hit me. I did not desire trudging back home (especially when I was still jobless) and yet I found myself not wanting to be in any local store (the thought of spending money that I really didn't have was a depressing thought). Instead, I found solace in walking down the various streets that made up the small town and enjoyed the opportunity of being lost in my own thoughts, a habit that inspired my Dad to dub me the "Dreamer." With Treena being deemed the "smart one, filled with potential," I guess the only title that was left was (as mum put it) the "unique dreamer" of the family. I translated her description of me into one word: lackluster.

It was with these cheery thoughts that I decided to sit for a moment on an occupied bench outside one of the various shops that adorned the side of the street. I felt myself slip from the world of reality as I mulled over the worries and troubles that now faced me. To think that I would be unemployed at a mere twenty-six years of age! The thought was absolutely disheartening, and sent me into another wave of silent despair.

"You look absolutely horrible, Clark."

His voice pulled me away from my own inner thoughts, and I blinked a couple of times for my eyes to adjust to his figure. He stood in front of me, hands in the pockets of his trousers, a gray cardigan fitted to accentuate his shoulders and biceps. He looked like some kind of Burberry model.

I repressed the scowl that wanted to appear on my lips, and instead responded wryly, "Charming as ever."

He smiled at me, his pearly white teeth almost seeming luminescent in this gloomy weather, "Of course I am, Clark. You on the other hand look absolutely miserable. What's got you so down in the dumps?"

I huffed, not having the patience to put up with him or his personality, "Nothing that involves the likes of you."

He either pretended not to hear my comment, or he ignored it, because he then sat next to me on the bench, our shoulders almost touching. He clearly had no respect for personal boundaries. I scooted away from him, almost half on and half off the edge of the bench. He didn't seem to mind my obvious discomfort. Instead he looked rather amused by the whole situation.

I gritted my teeth.

"Come on, tell Uncle Will," he prodded.

I wrinkled my nose at his words, and crossed my arms out of irritation. He looked at me expectantly. I pursed my lips to show that I wasn't planning on talking to him any time soon. I wondered if he would respect my wishes and get off _my_ bench.

He opened his mouth to speak and I inwardly groaned.

"Fine, if you won't tell me, I'll just have to guess," he then hummed to himself, pretending to be deep in thought. He then gave me a lopsided grin, "Boy trouble?" He managed to wiggle his eyebrows suggestively and he looked utterly ridiculous. I gave a short burst of laughter before I whacked his shoulder, "No, of course not!"

I then changed my tune to one of slight sarcasm, "Well, that is if you think running the Xtreme Viking Triathlon in Norway is the perfect, romantic getaway."

He gave me an exaggerated look of disbelief and utter horror, "You don't like to run?"

I gave him a wry smile, "My chest isn't exactly built for it."

That earned me a genuine smile. I decided he looked quite handsome when he smiled that way.

He leaned back against the back of the bench, directing his attention to those who passed by with their hands full of a shopping bags, "Does Mr. Running Man have a name?"

I relaxed a little bit and focused on the image of Patrick that was currently in my mind, "Patrick. He's a personal trainer. Met him when I was his hairdresser."

"That explains it then," he looked over at me before adding, "The love of running, I mean."

I kept my eyes on the people who were walking past, clearly unstartled and uncaring of the staring that I had been committing for the last couple of minutes. I wasn't sure if he was looking for a response, so I only gave a slight hum to signal that I had heard him.

Another question rose from his lips, "How long have you been together?"

"Six years," I replied plainly.

A string of laughter that would have been contagious if the following words didn't accompany it: "Six years!? Dear Lord, six years, Clark?"

I bristled, "Don't laugh."

The laughter stopped emanating from him and he moved on to his next question, "Six years is a long time. How old are you, Clark?"

I clicked the heel of my shoes together, which produced a small sharp sound. I rather liked it. It felt so satisfying. I did it again before answering him, "Twenty six." I glanced at him, attempting to arch my eyebrow like he had done during many of our meetings, but I knew it was a sloppy imitation, "You?"

"Thirty one."

I kept the surprise off my face. He looked younger than thirty one. If I had to guess, I would have predicted that he was my age. Perhaps one or two years older.

A small moment of silence.

I then realized that he was waiting for me to say something, that it was my turn to contribute to the conversation. I gave a small brief sigh before telling him what was really on my mind, "The prospects at the Job Center aren't looking particularly great unless I want to work chicken processing factory or the entertainment industry."

My confession did not seem to faze him. He titled his head to a slight angle as inquired, "What do you want to do with your life, Clark?"

My expression must have been one of confusion because then he clarified, "Do you want to stay here all your life? Do you have plans or dreams that you want to accomplish? A bucket list? A lifelong wish that you want to see fulfilled?"

I found myself unable to answer. Truth be told, I had never thought about it. I looked down at my shoes, feeling no inspiration to click the heels of my shoes to produce the sound that had once sounded so pleasing to my ears. After a moment, I shrugged and managed to meet his eyes, "I just want a job. I really need one."

I wasn't sure what emotion was exactly conveyed in his eyes. Was it disappointment? Displeasure? Was it simply one of a neutrality? Perhaps I was overanalyzing. Perhaps he didn't really care what my answer was, and was only attempting at making small talk.

After a mere moment he then got to his feet and turned to face me, "Well then, Clark, consider yourself hired at the castle. The café needs some help in running. Come to work tomorrow at 8:30 sharp."

I opened my mouth to protest. To argue that I didn't need his pity. To question what gave him any right in hiring me. But before I could say anything, he held out a hand which served as a successful tactic in silencing me, "It's better than working at a chicken processing factory or in the entertainment industry."

With that, he put his hands back into the pockets of his trousers, and strode away down the street until he was completely out of sight.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Thoughts? Review?**

\- The Painted Green Door


	6. Mister Bossman

**Note:** Please read the author's note at the end. Happy Reading!

* * *

 **Chapter Five:**

* * *

LOUISA:

* * *

When I arrived home with the good news both my parents looked relieved and quite pleased. The worry that had been etched on my mother's face for the last few days now softened, and my dad gave me a soft smile as he kissed my forehead that night before I went to bed.

I thought that now the weight of finding a job was lifted off my shoulders, I would have been able to quickly fall asleep. Yet instead I was kept awake, my mind buzzing with the thoughts of my interaction with Will that occurred earlier that day. I rolled over to my right side, staring at the calendar that I had hung on my closet door. It stared back at me.

To think that of all the people that would give me a job, it turned out to be Will. Mr. Wedding Man. Mr. Bourbon Whiskey. It was a strange thought. I was grateful, of course, for the job. It meant a steady income, and of course meant that my parents could worry a little bit less about the finances. But the thought that perhaps the only reason he gave me the job was because he pitied me – such a thought ate away at me and gave me a sense of unease.

I eventually settled into a restless sleep, the kind that when your alarm clock finally goes off in the early hours in the morning, it feels as if you had gotten absolutely no sleep at all. I awoke unenthused, and almost tempted to roll over and go back to bed. But the news that I had actually secured a job resurfaced in my mind, and I quickly scrambled out from the covers – ready to start my day.

I found myself wanting to make a good first impression, and apparently my mother wanted me too. She had insisted that I wear her suit which looked like it belonged in the late 1980s. I knew better than to argue with her, and found myself awkwardly shuffling out the door and down the steps – the waistband of the skirt cutting into my skin, and the jacket tight around my shoulders and chest.

I continued my awkward gait all the way up to Stortford Castle, slightly out of the breath since my outfit slightly restricted my ability to breathe freely. As I walked towards the entrance, I spotted Will who was leaning against one of the castle's walls, head bent down and fingers flying as he typed away on his phone. I tried not to ogle at how the cut of his suit looked expensive and how he looked impeccable in it.

Just as I was about three yards away from him, he looked up and straightened his posture. A wave of irritation swept across his facial features, yet it so quickly passed that I wondered if I had imagined it.

He glanced at his watch, grimacing, "You're 89 seconds late, Clark."

Clearly I had not imagined his annoyance. I glanced at my own watch, a gift that Patrick had gotten me in honor of our third anniversary together as a couple, and frowned as I saw the time. 8:31. I glanced back up to see him already walking away from me, his back turned.

I hurried after him, attempting to keep up with him.

"You may not think so, Clark, but time is money. Every second counts so do plan to come at least on time, if not earlier," he said as he adopted a brisk sort of pace. It took me two steps to match only one of his. I attempted to say something, but my mouth had ran dry and I decided to prioritize breathing rather than speaking. He probably wouldn't want to hear any of my excuses or apologies.

As we entered the main hall of the castle, there was already a group of tourists eagerly awaiting to embark on their tour of the castle. It seemed to odd to think that yesterday, that was me – except this time I at least had a job.

Will made a sharp right turn through a passageway. I stumbled after him, my shoes pinching my toes already. I winced as a noise of fabric tearing reached my ears. I glanced down to see that the left seam of my skirt was torn, presenting a slit that was rather high and on the verge of dangerously inappropriate. I caught the fabric between my thumb and forefinger in an attempt to keep it together as I tried to keep the pace Will had set.

The room could only be described as an indoor terrace – a glass roof offered natural lighting, the floor length windows offered a pleasant view of the gardens and grounds, and the columns which either offer support or were just decorative (I suspected the latter) provided a Mediterranean vibe. Chairs, tables, and the occasional couch decked out the space. Where we were standing, a small corner was dedicated to the refreshments. A display case was filled with what looked like freshly made bakery treats, and a shiny espresso machine (along with a modest coffee machine and hot water urn). The whole space was a clean sort of glamorous – modern, yet still within the theme of the castle.

"Nathan, meet Louisa."

Will's pragmatic tone drew me back to reality, and I shifted my eyes to find a man who looked to be about a couple years older than myself. His hair was brown, with streaks of what looked to be silver. His eyes (were they gray?) were crinkled due to the broad smile that was plastered on his face, "Nice to meet you, Louisa."

A New Zealander. I instantly got the sense he and I would become fast friends. He offered his hand to shake, and I edged towards him – my left hand still trying to keep the skirt together even if it was a hopeless task. I shook his hand with my own, before glancing at Will – making sure I wasn't doing anything wrong. I couldn't afford to be unemployed again.

"She'll be working here starting today. Make sure she knows the drill," Will said, looking rather impatient. I decided to secretly call him Mr. Bossman from now on.

"Yes, Drill Sergeant!" Nathan said with a dramatic salute. I smiled, amused. Will on the other hand did not, or if he did he was suppressing it. He glanced at me, when a chuckle escaped my throat, and I instantly found myself feeling squeamish.

Suddenly, a large piece of fabric hit me in the chest and I scrambled to grab it with my hands. It took me a moment to realize it was a rather large, oversized forest green apron – the kind a barista might wear in a fancy, hipster coffee shop. I never wore one during all my time at the Buttered Bun.

"Wear that, Clark. We don't need you scaring off any customers with your…skirt situation." Will said, his eyes drifting for a mere second to where my hand was still attempting to keep the tear together. As I became utterly mortified, he glanced at his watch, "And, with that said I must be off. I expect good work from the both of you."

Mr. Bossman left without so much of another glance. I couldn't decide whether I was relieved that he moved on from my fashion fiasco, or disappointed he hadn't said any truly comforting words to me. I shrugged the apron on, grateful that it was both wide and long enough to cover my mother's unrepairable skirt.

"Don't worry about him, Louisa. He can be cold, but he's really harmless," Nathan, my new coworker, said cheerfully as he stepped behind the counter and began to fill the urn in the small sink that was in the very corner of the space.

I stepped behind the space, curious to learn more, "Have you worked here long?" I tried to imagine him working here for years – somehow it just didn't fit.

He shook his head, some of the gray hairs on his head catching the dim light that shone through the glass windows, "No. I'm actually attending nursing school right now – part time. Thought it would be smart to work some in order to pay it off. Will actually saved me – lots of employers wanted me to have a standard work schedule which can be a bit tricky since I never know what will happen with school. He lets me figure out my own schedule, lets me work as much as I please. You haven't met Pamela – but usually she'll cover for me when I'm not here." He glanced at me, smiling, "I'm glad that the café will have another worker."

I nodded, not knowing what exactly to say and becoming even more confused about the enigma that was called by the name of Will.

* * *

One of the blessings that I quickly found out was that Nathan was a very patient coworker. Never having to work with an espresso machine before, I found myself butchering some of the orders. Nathan however, was quick to correct my blunders, and always sent me encouraging phrases like "Don't worry, you'll get a hang of it." or "You're getting better."

I didn't tell him that I sincerely doubted his words.

Another blessing that since I started work on Wednesday, it was Friday before I knew it. Nathan had left the café early, desiring to go home to study for exam that he had later tonight. I was somewhat nervous that challenging orders would come my way, but I repressed the fear and instead wished him well on his exam.

"You sure you'll be fine?" Nathan asked for the hundredth time. I nodded, waving my hand in a dismissive manner. That action sent him on his way.

Business was slowing down, so I took some time to grab the local paper from one of the stands nearby (which also held tourism information, biking tour brochures, and pamphlets of the local YMCA). Leaning against the counter, I started to peruse with no specific interest in mind except to pass the time.

"Slacking, Clark?"

I turned my head so quickly at the familiar wry voice, convinced that I had gained whiplash from such a quick, abrupt movement. He stood there in all his (supposed) glory, looking quite impeccable as he did on the first day I started working here. I tried to plaster a look of displeasure, although I'm sure my face looked awkwardly distorted from the effort, "Of course not."

He walked closer to me, leaning a bit over to look at the newspaper that was currently sprawled out on half the counter. Forehead creased, he then looked at me with mile surprise, "Never thought you were the kind of person who was into horse-racing."

I ignored the fact that his minty, sharp breath hit my cheeks due to his close proximity, and instead straightened my spine and placed my hands on my hips as if that would give me legitimacy, "You shouldn't judge a book by its cover."

In all honesty, I had been so bored that I had zoned out – not even realizing what I was looking at. I let my eyes drift down to the sheet that stared back at me. A short list of racehorses, records, and total monetary winnings was staring back at me. Had I really been staring at the sports section without realizing it?

I glanced back up at Will-Mr. Bossman-to see him staring back at me, blinking once or twice before actually opening his mouth to speak, "Well, since you seem to be an expert at it – which horse looks to be a winner?"

I hadn't expected this question, and my heart suddenly hammered in my chest. My eyes flitted to the list of names, and back to his eyes so quickly that I felt as if I was almost in a spy movie. Taking a shaky breath I then said, "Damsel's Distress."

His lips widened and parted, showing his perfect pearly white teeth – and a laugh escaped his throat as he smiled at me, "Damsel's Distress? Sounds like a metal band – or an emo rock group." He then appraised me, as if I was suddenly a racehorse, with skepticism, "Are you sure you're an expert?"

I crossed my arms over my chest, sending him a look of annoyance, "Of course, I am."

He shook his head in a manner of disbelief, as if he was sharing some kind of private joke with himself. I fumed, not liking the idea that he was laughing at me. I pursed my lips, trying to channel the most evil eyed stare I could under these circumstances. I was confident I wasn't successful.

"Alright, Clark. I believe you – honest to goodness. Don't send that look of disdain in my direction," he said, holding his hands up in a kind of mock surrender. Will then gave me a small smile, a quirk of the lips, "Are you doing anything tomorrow?"

My brow furrowed, slightly out of annoyance and slightly out of confusion, "Why?"

"Because we're going to go to the racetrack tomorrow, Clark."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Whew! It's been a long while, hasn't it? (A fact that I am totally ashamed of.) Uni has really being picking up. Thank you to the person who sent me a PM asking me to update this story. That really motivated me. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! **Thank you as always for the support and love that you give to this story and to me! Be so kind as to leave a review with your thoughts?**


	7. Mister Gambler

Author's Note: It's been such a long time since I've had the chance to update this story. I hope you enjoy, and thank you for all the lovely support you guys have shown me! It is very much appreciated!

* * *

 **Chapter Six:**

* * *

LOUISA:

* * *

Somehow on Saturday I found myself at Granta House, the actual impeccable home of Will Traynor. When he had first told me to meet him at nine o'clock sharp at the house, I was curious as to why exactly a successful person like Will was living at home with his parents.

However, as I came around the bend, I was greeted with what could only be described as a home from the pages of Country Living. In that moment, I could perfectly understand why Will Traynor wouldn't want to live anywhere else. It automatically put my own humble abode to shame. The landscaping was impeccably done – the bushes were pruned, the flowers blooming, and the grass the greenest I've ever seen it. I imagined my own mum would have gushed over all of it – possessing no green thumb herself.

A silver Jaguar was positioned in the front of the house, purring perfectly as it waited to go. Will was already inside the driver's side, drumming the pads of his fingers along the leather steering wheel. Securing eye contact with me, he then nodded towards the passenger's side. I cautiously made my way over, not daring myself to breathe. I watched as Will became more impatient at my slowness, going so far as to roll his eyes and lean over to unlock the door himself.

"Get in. We've already missed the morning races at Longfield, and if you're any slower we'll miss all of them," he said as words of greeting.

I withheld a biting response, and instead slid into the passenger's seat – silently appreciating the smooth buttery leather seat. The car still had that lovely leather smell, and I was tempted to take a big whiff of it but restrained myself. Closing the car door with a clean shut, I then buckled my seatbelt and glanced at Will.

He met my own gaze (which most have been one of awe), and then shrugged his shoulders as he shifted the gear to drive, "It was either this or the Bentley, Clark."

* * *

The car ride to Longfield was a mostly silent one, and was only filled by my small talk nervous chatter, and Will's responses which met the minimum word requirement. I learned within the first fifteen minutes of the ride that Will was the kind of guy who was fine with silence – or at least didn't like the kind of painful conversation topics I supplied. When I reached this realization, I sunk into my seat and stared out the car window which displayed a gray sky and plenty of farmland.

Once we had reached the grounds, Will pulled up towards the entrance and turned off the ignition. I looked at him, confused at why we weren't parking in the designated area like everyone else. He just sighed as he looked in the rearview mirror to fix his tie, "Come on, Clark. Time to get out."

I scrambled to follow his lead, and watched wordlessly as he tossed his keys to a young, baby faced valet. I wondered what the valet thought of Will and me – were we an odd pair? Was Will a regular? I remembered my dad's warning that he told Treena and me when we were younger: "A man who bets is a man in debt."

"Yeah, okay, Dad," Treena had replied, slightly guffawing before turning her attention back to the magazine she was reading.

I had stored those words away for some reason, and today they were in the forefront of my mind. Was Will a gambler?

It turned out that my questioned seemed to be answered sooner than I had anticipated. He had led the way to a counter which had a sign with the word "TELLER" hanging above it. The women smiled at us as we approached, "Mr. Traynor, so good to see you again. What will it be?"

My lips parted and I was sure my jaw dropped as I watched Will extract a wad of cash from his navy sport coat. Not even glancing my way he said: "£20,000, to win on #7, Damsel's Distress."

I found my wits and interjected, "£20,000?" I found myself getting dizzy at trying to calculate how much months' worth of groceries that would have supplied my family. I eyed the thick wad of money that laid on the counter. I had never seen so much money in my entire life. Was that what £20,000 pounds really looked like?

Will gave me an easy smile as if this was a common occurrence, "Why, sure. Why not? I trust your judgement, Clark." He then paused, as if he was considering something intently, "Do you think I should bet more?"

I felt instantly sick to my stomach. He was taking my advice?

As if it could get any worse, the teller added her own two cents, "Mr. Traynor is one of our favorite premier badge holders. He's often been quite successful in his bets." She then smiled, practically beaming, "I must say, this is a rather unusually large sum for you today, Mr. Traynor. You're not turning into a regular bridge jumper, are you?"

"Of course not, I'm just very confident in Clark's abilities. She's really quite into horse racing you know," he said, glancing at me with a devilish grin on his lips. He then turned his attention back to the teller, "Anyway – a straight clean bet because Clark said that Damsel's Distress is a winner for sure." Will then stared at me as he continued to speak, "Besides, if I lose than I'm £20,000 poorer and it'll all be on Clark's conscience-"

"I lied, okay!?" I said, hating to admit it but needing to come clean all the same. I repeated myself once I registered that Will and the teller looked absolutely stunned, "I lied about being a horse racing expert. I wasn't even _looking_ at the sports section. I mean, it was open to the sports section, but I didn't even _know_ it. I was zoned out, and then _of course_ you had to bother me and ask me about it." I was waving my arms, flapping them about as if I was some wild bird now, "And don't you dare bet £20,000 pounds on that horse, Will Traynor –"

At this moment he held up his left hand which instantly silenced me. His lips were in a firm, thin line and his facial expression was unreadable. I was sure he was disappointed – angry even. I heard a low whistle from somewhere, I it was then I realized that I had created a scene, and practically shouted so that all nearby the teller could hear my confession. I didn't need a mirror to know my cheeks were flushed. I was utterly mortified, and wanted nothing more than to sink in the Jaguar's car seat and melt like butter.

But then Will smiled – a real, perfect teeth showing smile. And then I realized that not only was he smiling, he was laughing at me. He quickly directed his attention back to the teller, "You heard the woman, let's take that bet down to £20 on Damsel's Distress." He then snuck a glance at me, "My treat, Clark."

I was at a loss for words, fuming.

He handed me the ticket, and I almost dared to refuse it. My pride urged me to let him have it – or at least if I couldn't let him have it (after all, he did give me a job with a steady income), let the ticket have it. I imagined tearing it into shreds, and walking away.

But instead I took it, capturing it between my thumb and forefinger. I admired the glossy printed writing before I sniffed, and pretended to act disinterested. As much as I wanted to throw it back in his face, I reminded myself that if I did win, it would help pay for some of next week's groceries.

"Don't make that facial expression, Clark. When you get that pinched expression it makes you at least five years older," Will said.

I pretended to ignored him, but quickly changed my facial expression to a more neutral one.

* * *

As it turned out, I had horrible luck. Damsel's Distress didn't even make it out to the racetrack because it had sprained its ankle half an hour before its scheduled race. It put me in a glum mood, and Will's comment of "Terrible luck. I'm sure it would have beat all the other horses Clark if given the chance." made my spirits sink even lower.

The car ride was filled with heavy silence, but this time around I didn't even mind. In fact, I welcomed it. I couldn't want to return back home, change into my pajamas, brew myself a cup of tea, and wallow in self-pity until the end of time. Either that or gain a concussion that would make me forget all about today's events.

After approximately twenty four minutes of silence, Will broke it: "Come on, Clark. Didn't you at least have an inkling of fun? Yes, Damsel's Distress may not have raced, but we got to see at least three other races. It was a rather good time if you ask me."

"Are you not even going to acknowledge this morning?" I croaked aloud, not realizing how a lump had formed in my throat. I focused on pushing back the tears. Now was not the time to cry, and I certainly wouldn't cry in front of him of all people.

I detected how the corner of his lips quirked ever so slightly upwards, "What about this morning?" he asked, in a leveled and perfectly innocent tone. He turned on his blinker to turn into the long driveway that led to his stupidly perfect house.

His words only infuriated me more, and I clenched my teeth for a moment before replying. I desperately tried to reel my anger in, but his attitude managed to fan the fire within me, "How you practically embarrassed me in front of everyone."

He gave a small laugh, that easy smile gracing his lips again, "It was just some good fun, Clark. A joke. I promise you there was no malice in it. I was only teasing you." He then turned to me, meeting my eyes as we reached his house. "I promise, it was only in good fun." he added as he parked the car, and turned the engine off.

"Teasing me?" I cried out loud, "It was insensitive of you!" I huffed as I scrambled to unbuckle my seatbelt, "You allowed me to make a scene. And not only that, but the worst part is that you laughed it off!" I had managed to open the car door by now, and hurried to get out of the claustrophobic car with its buttery leather seats that I now hated. I leaned down to poke my head in the car door now, "You may have noticed Will, but money isn't a joking matter or a thing that should be treated lightly. And you being willing to throw £20,000 at something as a joke – acting like it isn't anything whether you lose the money or not – it isn't funny. It's irresponsible and careless of you, Will Traynor."

And without even allowing him to get in a word in edgewise, I slammed the car door and started what seemed the very long walk home.

* * *

 **Note:** I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Horse racing certainly didn't go as we all expected, now did it? It's been such a long time since I've updated this story, and I'm a bit nervous the pair was a bit out of character. But after mulling it over, I believe that Will would still be cocky and confident - like he was in prior to the accident. What do you think? Thoughts? **Be so kind as to leave a review?** (They certainly motivate me to continue this story, and to keep writing!)


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